


Mistletoe

by spanglecap



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Heated Kissing, Kissing, Obligatory Seasonal Mistletoe Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:44:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2846534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spanglecap/pseuds/spanglecap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve takes a chance. He thinks it pays off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistletoe

There’s a knock at Steve’s door, a sharp and sudden rap against the solid wood.

 Jolted from his thoughts, Steve puts the paper he was absentmindedly doodling on down atop the coffee table in front of him, along with the stack of loose papers already scattered across. He hauls himself up from the sofa, wondering briefly who it is. There aren’t that many people in the Tower, with most of the team away either on missions or not getting back until tomorrow. It's rare that the whole team are together in one place for very long, and just because it's Christmas doesn't mean there is an exception. He opens the door.

“Nat?”

“Got your distress call,” she announces, brushing past him before he can say anything else.

“I’d hardly call it a distress call,” he replies. All he’d done was send her a text asking if she had any good ideas for Christmas presents. What was so distressing about that?

“It’s December 24th and you’re only just thinking about gifts, I’d call that a distress call, Steve. Clearly you’ve never been Christmas shopping in this century.”

“I’ve been…busy?” Steve says, trying to defend himself. In all honesty, he had been busy. The world had needed saving a lot lately. “And I don’t think I have, actually.”

The last few years, somehow he’d always just managed to miss the build up to Christmas. For some reason the holiday season seemed to bring out the maniacs. Natasha turns to face him, expression grave.

“Well, get ready for the biggest battle of your life, Cap,” she says, in a way which makes Steve wonder if she’s joking or not. “Jesus, Steve, it feels like ice in here,” Natasha continues, wrapping her sweater around her tighter and glancing enviously at the way he appears unaffected, managing to be comfortable in only a long sleeved t-shirt. The slow warmth that has crept through his chest since she arrived helps too.

“Trust me, ice is _much_ worse,” he admits. He knows that better than anyone.

“Steve, _Russia_ is warmer than this apartment is right now.”

Steve lets out a laugh and thinks back to before the serum when he’d had to have four blankets and Bucky wrapped around him to keep the chill from his bones in the winter. Funny, it seems so far away now, like a dream. So much has happened since then. So much has changed.

“Guess I just don’t feel the cold like I used to.”

Natasha shrugs, and goes over to the thermostat on the wall, cranking up the dial.

“Well, not all of us can be a human furnace,” she says with a tone that may be mistaken for bitterness if he didn’t know better.

“Shouldn’t you Russians be used to the cold?” he retorts lightly, hiding a smile. Natasha shoots him a death glare as she turns back around to face him.

“So who do you still have to buy presents for?” she asks, changing the subject to more pressing matters. “Please tell me you’ve at least _thought_ about it before half an hour ago?”

“It’s not that bad actually,” Steve confesses. He’d figured out most of the team already. Ironically, Natasha had been the easiest to buy for, despite worrying for months about what he could get her that was personal but not too intimate, yet still convey that he hadn’t just bought something random. That he’d thought about her. _Thinks_ about her, he corrects mentally. Frequently.

No, there’s only one person left, and he finds himself grimacing at the predicament.

“It’s Stark,” Steve exhales heavily. “What do you buy a billionaire who has everything?”

“Oh, I don’t know, a sense of modesty?”

Steve laughs and the corner of Natasha’s mouth quirks up. She likes that he enjoys her wit. She wanders over to the coffee table, drawn to the papers scattered over it. It’s rare that she gets to see so much of Steve’s artwork out on display like this. She notes several pages are half finished sketches, scribbled out messes. It feels personal somehow, seeing things unfinished.

“I meant something I could get with actual currency.”

A particular page catches Natasha’s eye, and she pulls it out from the bottom of the pile to look at it properly. It’s a painting of the Iron Man suit, flying up towards the top of the page, a little rough around the edges. The details are modern and sleek, but the strong lines and bold colours remind her of old movie posters from the thirties and forties. It’s a style that suits Steve. 

“Why don’t you give him this?” she asks, holding the sheet up to him.

“It’s not finished,” he says quickly, suddenly standing by her side and taking the sheet from her hands to regard it with some intense scrutiny, a frown on his face. She takes it right back.

“Some of the greatest pieces of art are unfinished, Steve,” she says, holding it out at arm’s length, because that’s what you’re supposed to do with art, right? Look from a distance as well as up close? Steve makes a noise of disgruntlement beside her. Everyone is their own worst critic.

“Still…I’m not sure he’d like it.”

“I think you underestimate Tony’s appreciation of art that contains himself as the subject,” she says dryly, looking across at him out of the corner of her eye. He huffs out a laugh and takes the paper from her once more.

“That’s true,” he agrees, and goes to rummage in a drawer. Apparently not finding what he was looking for, he disappears into his study and returns a few moments later with a frame.

Steve could swear there’s a faint smile on her lips as he puts the painting in the frame, but as soon as he thinks he sees it, the next time he glances up at her it’s vanished.

“You didn’t have to come up, you know,” he says as he sets the frame down next to the door. Not that he isn’t happy that she did.

“Had to avoid getting caught in the crossfire,” she replies, finally sitting down on the sofa. “Tony wants to buy new Christmas lights but Clint’s insisting that they untangle the ones from last year.”

Steve smiles to himself and settles next to her. There’s a cheesy Christmas film playing on the television and they find themselves watching it in a comfortable silence. Steve tries not to think too much into the way she stretches her legs out over his lap. Tries not to think about how much he’d like to lean over and kiss her right now.

“You hungry?” she asks, eyes never leaving the screen.

Steve looks over to her, and decides to be bold. What? He can have game when he wants to, despite what Tony says.

“Is that your way of asking if you can have dinner with me?”

Natasha rolls her eyes at him, and swings her legs off the couch (and Steve) to stand up.

“In your dreams, Rogers,” she says dryly, because she’d never let him know that actually she thinks dinner with Steve would be quite nice. She heads over to the door, and doesn’t have to look behind her to know that Steve is following.

They head down to the kitchen, which they find empty. Presumably Clint and Tony are still arguing on the recreational floor and most other members of the team aren’t arriving until tomorrow. Natasha looks in the fridge to see what kinds of alcohol are in there. Steve can’t get drunk but that doesn’t mean they can’t enjoy a well-earned, have-a-night-off-from-saving-the-world drink on Christmas Eve.

“Drink?” she asks over her shoulder, not really waiting for an answer. He responds anyway.

“Please,” he says, and she hears a clinking of glasses from a cupboard.

Steve sets the glasses down on the counter while Natasha kicks the fridge door shut behind her and walks over to his side, setting a couple of bottles down. Steve’s just about to suggest figuring out what to cook when he notices something.

Mistletoe. Right above them. It hadn't been there a few hours ago.

Steve takes it as a sign. If you want to believe in that sort of thing. She turns to face him.

“Steve-”

He leans down and kisses her before he can convince himself not to. It’s chaste, a press of lips that only last a few seconds. More of an application of pressure than a kiss really. But it’s still enough to send a jolt right through him. Enough to make him want more. His self-restraint crumbles for a moment and he leans back in to claim her lips again before he makes himself pull away, remembering how he’d meant to keep it brief. For a second she doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look up at him, and Steve can’t help but feel like he’s made a terrible mistake.

 “Huh,” she says after what feels like a lifetime, and Steve's heart lodges itself in his throat, preparing for the worst. Honestly, he hadn’t thought past what would happen after he kissed her. Hadn’t thought about what would happen next.

“Mistletoe,” he says lamely as he takes a step back, as if it could excuse what he’s just done. She finally raises her eyes to meet his.

“I was wondering if you’d ever pluck up the courage to do that.”

That sly smile of hers creeps onto her lips and relief floods through him, because she isn’t pushing him away, doesn’t seem to be angry at him.

“So was I,” he admits, heart suddenly racing.

 “Well. It was better than last time,” Natasha teases. Last time had been on the escalator, when they were being chased by Hydra. So not that hard to beat, really. But she can’t help but wonder what it would be like if he ever managed to kiss her _properly._  Maybe now is the time to find out. “Could still use some practice though.”

He laughs and shakes his head, and she can see he doesn’t miss the reference.

“I don’t need practice,” he retorts, like he had all those months before in the car. Funny how when he says it, it doesn’t sound big-headed or egotistical. It just sounds honest. And she wants to feel that truth for herself.

“Show me.”

“What?”

Steve looks at her like he thinks he’s misheard her, and Natasha lets out a huff of frustration. Sometimes she wonders how he can be so perceptive and yet so completely oblivious at the same time. Reaching up, she grabs his collar, pulls herself onto her tiptoes and brings his lips down to hers.

It takes him a moment to respond, but then he opens his mouth to her and she can finally taste him properly, the way she’s wanted to for weeks now. He groans and it sends a throb of desire straight to her core, his presence invading her senses and making her dizzy with want. She sucks on his plump bottom lip, feeling hard muscle beneath her hands, tense and coiled. Heat rolls off his body and it’s powerful, consuming, wrapping her up until she can’t think straight.

“Good,” she breathes, eyes closed. Understatement. Partly because she’s not quite sure she’s prepared to let him see just how much a simple kiss is affecting her. And partly because she wants him to give her _more._ “But I think you can do better.”

“Let me try again,” Steve murmurs against her lips, and this time he gives it everything he’s got. He kisses her harder, deeper, and _god,_ it’s too much and not enough at the same time, because he doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of the taste of her but it burns him to his core. She moans into his mouth and it brings out something like a growl deep in his throat. Something dangerous and full of need. The desire to _claim_ , and be claimed in return. He’d find the intensity of it worrying if she wasn’t being so damn distracting and the next thing he knows, he’s pushing her up against the wall and she’s wrapping her legs around his hips, her core pressing against his suddenly painfully obvious erection.

“Forget food,” she gasps against his lips. “Bedroom. Now.”

Steve’s only too happy to oblige, and they stumble to the elevator. This is the absolute last thing he’d thought would happen when he’d kissed her not ten minutes ago, but he isn’t going to start complaining any time this century.

Their clothes end up in a scattered trail leading from the door to Steve’s bed, and it’s only when Steve kisses his way down her flesh to the centre of her body that Natasha decides without question that Steve  _definitely_ isn’t lying when he says he doesn’t need practice.

* * *

 

When Steve wakes up with Natasha sleeping soundly, half draped over his chest and legs tangled together, wrapped around him as if he were the only source of heat in the room, her flesh beneath his fingers, he thinks it’s the best Christmas present he could have asked for.

The only thing that could beat it is perhaps the most beautiful, genuine smile he’s ever seen her give when she opens his Christmas present to her and finds tickets to see the Bolshoi Ballet in New York.

Or maybe the way she’d looked last night (and this morning) when he’d made her come, grasping the sheets and writhing in pleasure, his name on her lips.

Yeah.

Definitely the way she looks when she comes.

Thank god Tony had insisted on hanging mistletoe everywhere.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas everyone!!! <3 <3  
> Hope you have a fantastic holiday! :D
> 
> As always thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed! Kudos/comments welcome


End file.
